The morning sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Valerius Group's executive office, but the warmth didn't reach Elara. She stared at the medical report on her desk, her mind replaying the image of the stranger in the dusty cloak.
"His name is Kaelen," Myra said, her voice steady for the first time in years. She stood by the window, looking out at the city she had nearly left behind. "He didn't use a stethoscope. He didn't ask for a history. He just... fixed it."
Elara leaned back, her fingers drumming against the mahogany surface. "He's a ghost. I had my security team track him. He appeared at the Thorne Estate an hour after leaving us. He claimed he was there to marry Isabella Thorne based on an old contract."
"And?"
"They threw him out," Elara said, a trace of a smile tugging at her lips. "Arthur Thorne called him a 'mountain drifter.' But before he left, Kaelen told Arthur he had three days to live."
Myra's expression darkened. "If that boy says someone is dying, Elara, they should start picking out a coffin. Find him. We owe him a debt, and Oakhaven is about to become very dangerous for a man who insults the Thornes."
Kaelen didn't care about the Thorne family's insults. He was currently sitting on a plastic crate in a narrow alleyway, eating a bowl of three-credit noodles. The city was loud, chaotic, and smelled of ambition and rot. It was a far cry from the scent of pine and silence he was used to.
Tsk.
He felt the presence before he heard the footsteps. Three men stepped into the alley. They wore matching black tracksuits and carried the heavy, dull energy of street thugs. In the lead was a man with a jagged scar running across his knuckles—one of the guards from the Thorne gate.
"Master Thorne doesn't like loose ends," the lead thug growled, pulling a collapsible baton from his belt. "And he doesn't like beggars making threats about his health."
Kaelen slurped a noodle, not looking up. "I gave him a diagnosis, not a threat. If you leave now, you can spend your afternoon doing something productive. Like living."
"Funny kid. Break his hands first," the thug ordered.
The two lackeys lunged. They moved like clumsy bears, their swings wide and telegraphed. To Kaelen, the world seemed to slow. He saw the shift in their weight, the tension in their tendons, and the blockage of energy in their shoulders.
Snap.
Kaelen didn't stand up. He merely flicked his chopsticks.
The wooden sticks whistled through the air, striking two pressure points on the first attacker's lead arm. The man let out a strangled cry as his limb went limp, the baton clattering to the pavement. Kaelen followed up with a palm strike to the second man's chest—not a heavy blow, but a precise vibration that disrupted his breath.
The second man collapsed, clutching his throat, his eyes wide with a sudden, localized panic.
"What did you do?" the leader barked, his bravado flickering like a dying candle.
"I turned off the power," Kaelen said, finally standing. He moved with a predatory grace that made the alley feel suddenly very small. "A human body is just a series of circuits. If you don't know how to maintain them, they break."
The leader swung his baton in a desperate arc. Kaelen stepped inside the guard, his fingers moving like a weaver's shuttle. He tapped the man's wrist, then his elbow, then his collarbone.
Thud.
The leader hit the ground, his body refusing to obey his brain. He wasn't in pain, but he was paralyzed, his muscles frozen in a state of sudden, forced hibernation.
"Three days," Kaelen whispered, leaning over him. "Tell Arthur the clock is ticking. And tell him that the next time he sends trash to my dinner, I'll make sure he doesn't even make it to the weekend."
Kaelen picked up his bowl, finished the last of the broth, and walked out of the alley. He needed a place to stay, and he knew exactly who would provide it.
Silas Valerius sat in his private study, his silver-topped cane leaning against his chair. When the door opened, he expected his granddaughter, Elara. Instead, he saw a young man with silver eyes and a presence that reminded him of a thunderstorm held in a glass jar.
"The Iron-Mist Peaks," Silas whispered, rising to his feet with more energy than he had shown in months. "You have the old man's eyes."
"And you have the old man's debt," Kaelen replied, stepping into the room. He didn't bow. He didn't show the deference Silas was used to. "My master said you were the only man in this city with a soul worth saving."
Silas laughed, a deep, hearty sound. "He always was a terrible liar. But you saved Myra today. For that, the Valerius family is yours to command."
"I don't want a command. I want a pharmacy," Kaelen said. "And I want a seat at the table when the Thorne family falls. They have something that belongs to my master—the Azure Phoenix Needle. They stole it eighteen years ago. I'm here to take it back."
Silas's smile faded. "The Thornes are protected by the Malakor Syndicate. Taking that needle is like pulling a tooth from a live dragon."
Kaelen's expression didn't change. He reached into his belt and pulled out a single, shimmering silver needle. It hummed with a faint, blue light.
"I've spent twenty years learning how to kill dragons," Kaelen said. "I think it's time Oakhaven learned that some diseases can't be cured with money."